


Soldier's Ghosts

by KuraraOkumura



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Historical, F/F, F/M, Love Triangle, M/M, Slow Pace, WWII, Weakened!Dying!Jean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-28
Updated: 2014-06-28
Packaged: 2018-02-06 15:29:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1862952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KuraraOkumura/pseuds/KuraraOkumura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean Kirstein is a controversial war hero, a renowned German soldier who turned against Hitler during the Second World War and helped to precipitate the Fuhrer's downfall. He enlists the help of the quiet Armin Arlert, a Russian ghostwriter with a growing reputation, to write his biography. Armin quickly begins to feel inexplicably drawn towards the temperamental, insecure Mr Kirstein, who remains blind to the younger man's devotion. But one day Armin finds between the war Officer and one of his own best friends, Eren Jaeger, a link that could well destroy the carefully built relationship he has strived to preserve with Jean, and Armin doesn't quite know what to do with the discovery. Just this once, it's him or Eren.</p><p>And as he slowly begins to understand, time is running out for him to make his final choice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soldier's Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> Okay.
> 
> So I came up with this idea while watching a movie with Pierce Brosnan and Ewan McGregor, in which a ghost writer (McGregor) is hired to write a politician's life (Brosnan) into an autobiography. I really liked the idea (and the movie) and this was born from it.
> 
> I'm warning you.
> 
> This won't be like my other fics. It won't be pink and fluff and happy. I even doubt there'll be any real smut, all things considered. But, as you'll be able to tell if you read this first chapter, it'll be intense, and grave, and life altering.
> 
> I think this is probably one of the best plot ideas I've had in a long time. So, please, read on. I'll be grateful to you if you do.
> 
> And tell me what you think, too. Your help, and your advice, would be much appreciated.

Chapter 1: Last Address (Dernière Plaidoirie)

 

* * *

 

When Armin first stepped into Jean Kirstein's luxurious Manor home, it was every bit as ostentatious as he'd thought it would be. For him, who had lived in cramped apartment blocks all his life, it was intimidating to say the least. What _did_ surprise him was the lack of… _brilliance_ in the house. Its near entirety was built of wood; mahogany, ebony, oak, rosewood, redwood, chestnut oak; every shade and every texture was there. In the winding staircase tucked against the right wall of the wide entrance hall, leading to the first floor which appeared to be a wide corridor lined with doors on either side; the ceiling, hung with lustres of wood and aristocratic, corralled lamps shedding a dim light on everything; the shelves full of books that lined the four walls from floor to ceiling; the numerous engraved desks holding flower vases, the only touches of colour besides the cream walls of the first floor above his head. In front of him, the entrance hall stretched onward, so that the first floor became a sort of balcony from which to overlook the wide double doors that Armin had just come in through.

The place was beautiful, yes; the dim lights of the chandeliers above his head only served to highlight the patina of the different woods surrounding him, while the cream walls of the first floor set off the dark sheen and dominance of the wood anew. It _was_ beautiful, and no doubt very expensive, and Armin could tell immediately, with his taste for anything artistic, that this entrance hall alone would enchant any man who preferred to work with his hands. But still, for some reason, _beautiful_ didn't seem to be quite the right word when he thought of how to describe it. _Beautiful_ shouldn't associate with 'ominous' or 'portentous', or hold such an imbued feel of secrets to it. So beautiful wasn't exactly the word.

"Mr Arlert! Mr Kirstein asked for me to bring you to him. I trust you had a safe trip? I really do wish the weather hadn't been quite so horrendous today. I mean, really! A rather uninviting start, don't you think?"

Armin looked up, his grey-blue eyes taking in the plump middle-aged woman descending the grand staircase from the first floor, her pale red hair pulled into a tight bun behind her head, her smile motherly and warm. He smiled back at her a little uncertainly, his wet overcoat dripping onto the dark linoleum floor with an insistent flick-flock sound. It was indeed lashing rain outside, the wind howling as it hadn't for months. The Kirstein Manor was situated on a slope atop a hill, bordering a wide canyon on one side and a wide nothing of an undulating incline on the other. What Armin really wanted to say was that it wasn't just the weather that was 'uninviting'; the site wasn't exactly an appealing view either. But he bit his lip and kept his nervous smile plastered on his face as he amiably replied, "Yes, I had a safe trip, thank you, Ms…?"

The woman's smile grew as she stepped off the stairs and came towards him. "Please, call me Anita. I'm Mr Kirstein's Chief Maid. We'll be seeing lots of each other in the next weeks, I should expect, so do put yourself at ease." She smiled again, close enough now to urge him to turn around so she could pull the wet coat from his shoulders and hang it over her arm. His clothes were only slightly humid under that, and she gave a critical nod as she assessed him, silently noting, he knew, the blue, striped button-up shirt that was slightly too big for him and the worn brown pants that had obviously seen better days. "I'll bring you to him, Mr Arlert. I'm sure you'll be pleased to know that he's in the hearth room at the moment, with a blazing fire to warm both of your bones. Really, the weather!" She shook her head ruefully, turning away from him. "Come on, follow me. Mr Kirstein has been expecting you for a while now."

"I'm sorry," Armin said honestly, a little dazed by all her talking. He trotted after her into the corridor leading under the first floor, adding, "I got lost on the way here."

She laughed a little, a warm, inviting sound. "I've no doubt you did. It's rather dark outside, and this is the middle of nowhere, isn't it? Mr Kirstein has always preferred to keep himself removed from society. He insists we keep most of the lights of the Manor's many rooms off unless absolutely necessary; he says that way light from the windows won't attract any passersby. I apologize if it made it harder for you to find us."

"Oh no," Armin said with a little smile, finding the woman's constant blabber more and more pleasant by the second. "No need to apologize. I have a naturally inexistent sense of orientation. Lights or no lights."

"Ah, well," she said knowingly, turning her head to look at him behind her as they walked along. "That makes two of us then!"

Armin inclined his head gracefully, and she turned back to look in front of her. This time she kept quiet, and soon enough they reached a new door, this one the same colour as the cream walls he'd glimpsed on the first floor. She pushed it open and urged him inside, then stepped in after him, quiet as a mouse, which struck Armin as totally uncharacteristic even though he had only known her for mere minutes.

They'd stepped into a relatively small, cozy room, lit only by a blazing fire in a waist-high hearth directly in front of him. The hearth lit up the silhouettes of two comfortable looking high backed chesterfield sofas, one of which he could see was occupied. The room's walls were horizontally lined with ebony halfway up, at which point that same cream colour started again, thus covering the upper half of the four walls as well as the low ceiling. Armin focused on the occupied armchair as Anita rushed up to it, murmuring a few quiet words into its occupant's ear before scampering out of the room again, mouthing a 'Good luck' and a thumbs-up to Armin as she passed him.

Once she was gone, closing the door closed quietly behind her, Armin took a few uncertain steps forward, wondering what he was supposed to do. The man he was meeting was something of a celebrity; a thirty-year-old, retired German rebellion soldier with a dislike for public appearances that had made a lot of people talk about him, more in bad than good. Besides the fact that he had little or no experience with celebrities, Armin had no idea what to expect. He half expected a brittle man with half-moon glasses and wrinkles around his eyes, but that wasn't quite right. In front of him, perhaps sensing his embarrassed hesitation, the man – Jean Kirstein, he had no doubt – stood from his armchair, turned to face him, and Armin got his first good look at the man he was to be working for for the next several months.

Jean Kirstein appeared to have ashen blond hair, though in the light of the fire he couldn't be totally sure. The hair at the nape of his neck seemed darker, nearly brown. He was taller than Armin by perhaps seven inches, with a long face, a square jaw, and deep-set eyes cast in shadow against the firelight behind him. He had wide but noticeably drooping shoulders, strong hips, and obviously large hands, one stuffed in a pocket and the other poised on the back of his chesterfield seat as though for balance. His presence seemed both imposing and reassuring.

"Mr Arlert," said the man softly. "We finally meet."

"Mr Kirstein," Armin replied with a smile. If the man had had a title in the war he would have called him by that, but Jean Kirstein had never been more than a mere soldier. He'd even refused the Legion of Merit awarded him by the US, claiming that he wasn't the one to thank for his participation in the war effort against Hitler. That was one of the mysteries that Kirstein's autobiography, which Armin was to be the ghostwriter for, was expected to uncover. "It is a pleasure to meet you."

"Likewise," Mr Kirstein replied, then stepped back to indicate the second armchair. "Please, have a seat."

Armin obliged, trying not to stare as the other man lowered himself shakily back into his seat, hands braced on its arms. It really _was_ for balance, Armin mused. Jean Kirstein's body was failing him; now that he could see the evidence, in the strain of the other man's muscles and the tenseness in his face that hid a carefully muted pain, it was obvious. It didn't make it any less tragic. Jean Kirstein was in the prime of his age, and yet for all that Armin could see, he was in a pain so intense and constant that he might as well be on the brink of death.

Noticing him staring even though he'd tried not to, Mr Kirstein waved a hand in dismissal, a humorous smile on his thin lips. "Don't mind me," he said lightly. "I'm just as bad as an old man."

Armin looked away, face flushing a little at having been caught. The blond shifted in his seat, unsure of what to do or say. He wanted, more than anything, to look at his new employer, whom he felt that now in the light of the fire instead of against it he would be able to see fully, but he was unwilling to be caught staring again. Instead, he settled for watching the flames in the hearth in front of him, listening as the slight hitch in the other man's breath that had been caused by the momentary pain of moving faded away into a calmer, more relaxed rhythm.

"Mr Arlert," Mr Kirstein began softly, but Armin stopped him from going any farther.

"Please, call me Armin."

There was a smile in the other's voice as he replied, "Only if you call me Jean."

Armin nodded with a smile of his own, though he still hadn't looked at his employer since he'd been caught staring. He knew he wouldn't, but he didn't tell the other that. He could just avoid calling the other by a name at all, and he wouldn't have to show him that he couldn't call him by his first name. It wasn't correct. Not rude, but not appropriate either; he was an employee, and that was all he was. He had no business calling Jean Kirstein by his first name to his face, even if the man had himself asked him to do so.

"So, tell me, Armin," Mr Kirstein began anew, and Armin finally looked his way, pleased to see that he had been right in his earlier appraisal of the other man's hair. There were lines in his face that didn't seem like they belonged; they made him look older than he was. He had a square jaw, a sharp nose, dark eyes, and his hair fell in unruly waves over his forehead. He was leaning on a fist, elbow planted on an arm of his seat, watching Armin with attentive and inviting eyes. "Why do you think I chose you to be my ghostwriter?"

Armin smiled shyly. "I have been wondering why, actually. I can't seem to understand your decision, Sir."

"Jean," the other man corrected. He looked at the blond a few seconds longer, then directed his gaze to the fire, settling back more comfortably into his seat. "I chose you," he said quietly, still smiling slightly, "because you have not yet been influenced by this…world. For your first biography, just three years ago, you chose Oscar Wilde. A controversial man to say the least, and a controversial choice. Just like I am, isn't that right? I am not a hero in everyone's eyes, Armin. What I did during the War… Numerous people despise me for it, or claim that it was not intentional. I have enemies on every side. People who would like nothing more than to kill me. Since the Führer took his own life, those who fought him have been looking for a new scapegoat. One they could ruin, one still alive, one whose life they would give anything to take with their own hands. Turns out that my role in the War is unclear enough to _some_ that I have become that scapegoat for _many_." His smile became bitter then. "Strange how the minority can sway the majority. It seems that convictions are never as deep-set as we would like to believe them.

"I chose you," Mr Kirstein repeated, "because Oscar Wilde, both as a man and as a writer, was just as criticized, if not more, as I am. Still is, to this day. His former friend, the Lord Alfred Douglas, whom since Wilde's death has strived to undermine his work and his person, died only recently, if I recall correctly. All heroes have enemies, just as all villains have fanatics that will push their infamy to new heights and importances."

"I trust that you will go about writing my life without criticising it, without judging it too harshly. And if you do begin to disapprove of my actions, and of me, then please, do not refrain yourself from voicing your doubts to me. I will answer. That is what I am here for, after all. I want the world to see exactly the kind of person that I am. You will be my last jury, Armin. And if your view of me is darker than I see it, then so be it. The world will see me the way you do. What you write of me will be my last Address to the Court; my Counsel's speech. I will accept your vision of me, because you are the best example of objectivity and acceptance I have been able to find in this Gods' forsaken world."

Mr Kirstein was silent then. Armin himself had long been struck into silence.

The two men sat in that room for two hours more. Not a word was exchanged between them after that; it seemed the silence was explanation enough for what was to go on in the next months.

It was only when Mr Kirstein's breathing became laboured and painful that the maid, Anita, stepped into the room, urging Armin out of it. She closed the door behind him, and the young man was left alone in the dark, empty corridors.

Breathless, and not really knowing why; shaken, and not finding the cause; in pain, and wanting nothing more than to curl up on the wooden floor and cry for a man whose place in this world had been decided too long ago, by people who'd had no business doing so. The man's decision to keep himself far from society made more sense to him now.

Armin didn't do that, though. Instead, he turned on his heels, and walked the length of the Manor back to the entrance hall. Once he was there, he looked around him one last time, wondering on how he had failed to notice that while, yes, the entire place was ostentatious at best, it was also uncared for. There was dust on every piece of furniture, from the lustre hanging from the roof to the shelves of books lining the walls. The wooden surfaces weren't polished; they were worn and old looking. The state of the place was a reflexion of its owner, Armin realized.

He kept his gaze down after that. His dried coat had been left on the ramp of the grand staircase; he took it, and did not look up from the tips of his polished shoes as he opened the entrance double doors and closed them behind him.

**Author's Note:**

> For the record, Oscar Wilde (1854-1900) is one of my idols. He is a man I deeply admire, both as a person and as a writer. I chose him for that reason, and also because his life indeed bears many a resemblance to Jean's. If you would like to know more about him, feel free to ask me or to look him up on wikipedia. :)


End file.
